


Our Harps of Gold

by therune



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therune/pseuds/therune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songs have always played a role in dwarven society. From lullabys to working songs, from hymns to praise and lamens to mourn. No dwarf grows up without music in their hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Harps of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> The timeline of the book and movie don't add up at all - Balin was 7 at the fall or Erebor, and Dwalin was a twinkle in Fundin's eye at the battle of Azanulbizar, so I messed around with those a bit.  
> Thorin is still the oldest dwarf - I blame the Durin-ancestry for his good looks. (My sister calls Throin, Fili and Kili the boyband dwarves. I can see why), then Balin, Oin, Bifur, Dori, Dwalin, Gloin, Bofur, Nori, Bombur, Fili, Ori, Kili. Roughly.  
> I'm taking a lot of liberties with this one.  
> Plus I made up a lot of names for canonical spouses and parents.

**Balin**  
Fundin brings home the viola when Balin is 50. "Finest spruce," he says and opens the case. He has learnt to play the violin, practised on his mother's instrument. But he's growing too tall and his fingers are too thick for the slim violin. His mother is tiny for a dwarf and so is her instrument. "About time you got your own," Fundin says and ruffles Balin's hair.  
"What's in the second case?" Balin asks.  
"Dwalin's viola. Mahal knows the boy needs one."  
Both chuckle. Balin's little brother has been taller then Balin since they were 35 and 26 respectively.  
Balin often jokes good-naturedly that he got the wisdom and his brother the strength of the two. And usually Dwalin tries to hit him for it. Which rather reinforces Balin's sentiment than contradict it.  
And the second case is indeed bigger than the first one.  
"Is a viola very different from the violin? It seems to be the same, only in larger size, but when I asked mother that, she huffed and went off to have a talk with Thorin's mother."  
"Ah, those two are thick as thieves. But it's best not to imply anything about violins around your mother anymore. You know how she gets. Proud like a king and twice as stubborn."  
Balin picks up the viola. It looks and feels like a bigger violin, but the way he settles it against his body feels good, feels right. He takes the bow and runs it over the strings experimentally. It sounds awful.  
"Balin, Balin, what's the first step?"  
"Tuning, never play an instrument before it's tuned."  
"Even your mother's viola would sound like a shrieking cat if it wasn't tuned right."  
Balin's finger fumble and then turn, bow in one hand, as he tunes the viola.  
He watches his father do the same to Dwalin's new viola.  
"Where is your brother?"  
"Training grounds?" Balin suspects. His brother can train with the best and he uses up most of his free time to hone his skills. He has yet to beat Balin in a fight, though.  
Fundin stands, raises the viola to his chin. A small melody trickles from the instrument. Balin instantly recognizes it.  
His mother was right, a viola is different. Both strings, both almost fluid, but the viola is deeper. More like stone and less like metal. He raises his own instrument. It's as if he can feel the notes vibrate in his bones. After a few false notes and his father's grin, it clicks and he adjusts. They play together.  
Yes.  
This is his instrument, this is his music.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Ori**  
The winter comes early. The Blue Mountains aren't necessarily kind in their winter, but the dwarves who came from Erebor always say that the winters there are far worse. Dori fusses, as always, prepares this and that. Ori is 10 and cares not a great deal. Nori promised that he'd come back soon and so Ori is waiting. But Dori always gets that sad look when he mentions Nori, so he carefully doesn't do that a lot. But Nori is cool, and he's been to distant lands. He says that he's been on the back of an oliphant, that he's ridden with the Hraradhrim. The other kids don't believe him when he tells what his brother has done. The others don't even know what an oliphant is, they're silly. But Nori does, and he brought Ori a small pendant made from the bone of an oliphant.  
Ori wears it every day.  
It's getting cold, so Dori digs out an old bundle from his room. Wrapped in coarse cloth, there are some woollen mittens and a hat for Ori. They're too big, they're always too big, but Dori says that he'll grow into them. Then Ori will ask if Dori said the same to Nori and then Dori will laugh.  
That's almost the only time Dori will laugh at his brother's name. When Ori grabs his hair and pulls it upwards, then Dori lauhgs. Ori loves Nori, but even that can't alter the fact that Nori is short, for a dwarf. Dori says that his ridiculous hair is him trying to compensate, and it seems to work. Nori's peaks make him seem taller. Ori tries on a glove - soft, warm and perfect - and when he picks the other one up, he feels something inside. A tube, of some sorts? He fished it out. "Dori, look!"  
It's a flute, black painted wood. At the bottom there's a bit of paint missing, chipped off and as Ori turns it over in his hands, he notices that someone has scratched something at the back. Dori.  
Dori has that sad look in his eyes again. Gingerly, he takes the flute from Ori.  
"I almost forgot I still had that." His fingers carress the wood, stroke over the holes.  
"Does it work, Dori? Will it play?"  
Dori doesn't answer.  
"Dori."  
Ori lays both of his hands, one still in a mitten, on Dori's hand.  
Dori looks at him and smiles.  
"Let's see, shall we? But let's clean that first, I don't want to know for how long that has been lying in there."  
After the flute has deemed suitably clean by Dori, he takes it in his hands and gently blows into it.  
A small note seems to fly out.  
"After all this time..."  
He smiles at Ori and begins to play.  
"I know that one, how does it go?"  
It's a short, happy melody.  
"I remember: There was a miner and his daughter, with hair so red..."  
Dori can play every song he ever sang to Ori. And Ori sings along whenever he can remember the words. And then he hums contentedly.  
  
  
**Bombur**  
"Careful now," Sami says and takes the plates from Kuli. She places them in the sink, but comes back out immediately for the next load of dishes.  
"I swear, it's more and more dishes every day."  
Kuli leaves for the last round, she hopes.  
The inn is the only one in the mining settlement, so it's always reasonably busy. She'd love the work, if not for the cleaning. She much prefers cooking. More than one of her customers has told her that he seems to have gone up a notch in his belt.  
She hears something clattering.  
"There you are!"  
She pretends that she hasn't seen her youngest hiding under a chair in the kitchen.  
"Come out, my little Bombur!"  
Bombur grins and she picks him up.  
Kuli brings in another basket.  
"Please tell me that was the last one."  
"Of course," Kuli rolls his eyes, "it's the same amount every day. We don't magically gain more dishes."  
"Good. Get to work then." She puts Bombur down on the counter next to the sink.  
She and Kuli work side by side, cleaning the dishes.  
She hands a few of the mugs to Bombur to dry off, but prudently the ones he can't break.  
Then she hears...noise. Musical noise.  
Next to Bombur is an upturned bowl and a large keg. And he's holding two wooden spoons, trying to look as if he hadn't been hitting the dishes with them.  
Playfully, she hits her flat hands on the counter.  
Bum-bum.  
He giggles, and hits the bowl with his hands.  
Bum bum bum.  
He imitates her.  
Bum bubum bum.  
Bum bubum bum.  
Kuli snorts, but he also has cutlery in his hands, banging on the edge of the counter rhythmically.  
"Chip the glasses and crack the plates," he starts.  
"Blunt the knives and bend the forks," she joins in.  
"Smash the bottles and burn the corks, that's what my innkeeper hates!"  
They hammer away for a while, little Bombur trying to keep up.  
  
  
**Oin**  
They set out for Azanulbizar. A dwarven army like he has never seen. And hopes he will never have to see again. Òin looks left and right and sees shining metal. They march, and the mace is heavy at his side. His fingers find the trumpet at his side. Tomorrow they will fight. Maybe he will die. Tomorrow his trumpet will announce war.  
After tomorrow he will never play again.  
  
  
**Dwalin**  
 He yearns for a home he has lost and for one he could have had. Azanulbizar left scars in places so deep he won't admit exist, even to himself. He had kept on fighting and fighting until there was no more, and there were bodies all over, as far as he could see.  
"Balin" is the first thing on his mind, "Thorin" a close second.  
Balin is walking over the battlefield, looking for him. There are tears in his eyes. They touch their foreheads together, as gentle as they haven't done since they were children. When he hugs Balin close, he feels tears stinging in his eyes. It is as if he had gotten hit.  
It's loss. Pure and simple. It hits maybe more like with Erebor. When Erebor fell he had been young, unable to fight. He is in his prime now, did everything he could, and he still lost.  
"Brother," Balin says softly, "oh, my brother. We-"  
"What has happened? Is Thorin alright?"  
"Yes, but."  
Dwalin instantly realizes.  
"Father."  
Fundin has fallen. They lost their mother in Erebor, now their father in Azanulbizar.  
It's only the two of them left.  
They will never see them again. Never hear them, they will never talk. His knees buckle and he nearly falls to the ground. Balin holds him and Dwalin is reminded of their father, how strong he is. He was.  
  
When night falls, they're still burying their dead. Khazad-Dum is lost and so many are gone. Just before sunrise, they are done. Dwalin sits down and feels like he's never going to get up again. He will just lie there, for a thousand years or more.  
He barely notices when two people sit down next to him. More like fall into him. Balin.  
Balin pulls at Dwalin, until Dwalin leans against his side. He hasn't done that to Dawlin since he was 25. Dwalin has become too big for that. But not too old, it seems. He hides his face against Balin's neck.  
The other person is Thorin. He looks stoic as always, but Dwalin feels that he is in turmoil.  
Balin begins to hum softly. Dwalin feels tears in his eyes. Father used to play that. He played the viola, and mother the violin. They played together a lot. With a pang he thinks of his own viola, lost with Erebor. He begins to feel guilt. His viola had gathered dust. He had always preferred sparring. He knows that he could have been better if he only applied itself. And now...now father will never play for him again. He'd done that sometimes, had purchased a new instrument in Ered Luin. But mother wasn't there to play with him. He'd played with Balin a few times.  
But Dwalin hadn't joined in. And now he could never have the chance. Never again.  
He cries silently. Balin does, too.  
Thorin.  
He can't see what Thorin does.  
Dwalin reaches over with one hand and fists it into Thorin's cape. Thorin reaches for Balin's arm and squeezes.  
They sit together until the sun has risen.  
  
  
**Nori**  
When they call for warriors to join them to Azanulbizar, Dori immediately thinks of signing up. He may not have had a warrior's training, but he's strong and has learnt how to handle a weapon. But he should talk to his mother first. Especially after...  
Dori's father had died long ago, when Dori was still a young dwarf. As long as he can remember, there had been only his mother Dorna. They had gone with the other refugees and had finally reached the Blue Mountains. Both of them had worked hard to make a living. Then mother had met Nirun, a merchant. Dori worked in the mines as many of the young people did: it was hard, but steady work. His mother had had a small stall selling knitted gloves, hats and other goods she made herself. Then Nirun had set up a stall next to hers, selling wares from the East.  
A few short years went by, and they had announced that they intended to wed.  
But shortly before the wedding Nirun had disappeared.  
Taken by bandits, some said. Suffered an accident outside, other suspected.  
Ran away, most agreed on.  
His mother had been inconsolable. Cried for days.  
That had been almost a year ago.  
Dori walked to his mother's house.  
She let him in, made some tea and before Dori could tell her that he thought about joining the warriors, she set aside her cup, took his hand in hers and set solemly: "I have something to tell you, Dori."  
She took a deep breath and looked him right in the eye.  
"I am with child, Dori."  
"I'm going to have a brother?" Dori asks breathless.  
His mother nods and cries.  
Of course Dori doesn't go to war. His mother needs him more.  
  
Nori is...tiny.  
Of course he is, he's a baby. But still...Dori doesn't think he has ever held something so small. He moved from the miner's quarters to his mother's house to help out.  
"I'm going to watch out for you, little brother," he promises.  
  
Nori is 8 when he finds Dori's old flute.  
"Dori, Dori, Dori, Dori," Nori chants and runs to Dori at full speed.  
Nori is still tiny, but fast. He has clutched the flute in his fist. "What is it? Dori, Dori, Dori."  
Dori ruffles Nori's hair - he jokes that Nori has more hair than sense - and quickly braids it again.  
"Dori!" Nori whines.  
Dori sits down and Nori climbs into his lap.  
"It's my old flute, see?" He turns the instrument over until they both can see that he has scratched his name into it.  
"You can play?" Nori asks with eyes full of wonder. To him, his older brother is the best.  
Dori and his mother had been worried, with Nori's father gone, that Nori would face mockery from the other children. But almost all of the dwarves and their children understand, they help out when Dorna needs help and don't judge. There are always some cruel kids, natives, who haven't witnessed what the refugees have. Only a few lucky ones of them have full families, almost everyone else is missing a father or mother, a sibling or a child.  
But Nori seems undisturbed when some kids mock him for not having a father. He has Dori, and that is much better.  
It's a small blessing, Dori thinks, that Nori looks so much like mother. Dori knows he resembles his own father. He doesn't know what would that do to his mother, if Nori looked too much like Nirun.  
Dori tests the flute, blowing and sliding his fingers over it. What comes out is a crooked scale, but he hadn't aimed for it anyway.  
"Gimme!" Nori demands and holds out his fingers.  
Dori smiles. He places the flute in Nori's hands, and then adjusts his fingers by placing them over the holes. And when he has finished one hand, he has to adjust the other one again. Nori's fingers are too short, he can't reach all the holes.  
"Go on," Dori says and Nori blows into the mouthpiece. When instead of a tone comes out a sound like a steaming kettle, he frowns.  
"That's not right," he complains.  
"It was your first try, little brother. And you got something out of it, so that's good. Let's try again."  
After more sounds more suited to a shrieking bird, Dori slides Nori's fingers to the top holes. "You'll take care of these, and I'll take over the lower ones."  
Together their fingers can cover the flute.  
Nori tries again, and this time it's a proper note. His mouth turns into a wide grin.  
"Again!"  
  
  
**Bofur**  
He is 11 when his father announces that he will go fight at Azanulbizar. He doesn't really understand what that means, but he knows enough to understand that father will be gone for some time.  
"We're going to Khazad-Dum, Bofur. That is where we come from. Your grandfather was born there. It was a dwarven kingdom, proud and mighty. The orcs took it from us, but we will take it back."  
"Are we going to move then?"  
Bromur laughs.  
"Yes, in some time. The kingdom reaches deep into the mountains, as if you were near the pulse of the earth. There are pillars so high that you could never see the ceiling. Except when it is goes dark, then you can see glittering above us. Stars of the Mountain. That's our home, Bofur, and that is what we are going to take back."  
They're living in a small mining settlement, with his mother working in the inn and Bofur running rampant through the streets, accompanied by a small horde of other children, dwarven and human. Bromur is a miner, but every dwarf is a fighter when home is concerned.  
"Just you see, Bofur, we're going to live in a kingdom soon."  
"Don't give too much on what your father says," someone interrupts.  
"Uncle Bifur!" Bofur exclaims and jumps up into his arms.  
"If your father rambles on, he's going to say something about palaces. Khazad-Dum is great, but that doesn't make royalty out of us. We're something far better anyway."  
"What is that?" Bofur asks curious.  
"Toymakers!" Bifur exclaims and presents a slim box to Bofur.  
Uncle Bifur's toys are the best! From the carved figurines to small charts that actually roll, whistles, figures which have arms that you can move to kites that can fly in the smallest breeze.  
"What is it, Uncle?" he asks. It feels heavy.  
"Why don't you open it?" Bifur asks with a twinkle in his eyes.  
Bofur opens the box and his father groans.  
"Do you want me to have sleepless nights from now on? Bifur, please!"  
"Oh hush you, I could have built him a drum. Or three."  
It's a clarinet. Bofur carefully slides his fingers over the wood.  
"Did you make this, Uncle?"  
"Of course," Bifur says mock-offended, "and I want you to practice. Day and night, if you must. And always tell your father when you have learned something new."  
Bromur swears that there are stars in little Bofur's eyes.  
"Amad!" Bofur screams and runs off to look for his mother, clarinet clutched close to his body, "look what Bifur made!"  
Bromur sighs. "I expected punishment, but a clarinet? I suppose I'm grateful you prefer to work with wood and not metal."  
"I did think about a trumpet," Bifur admits.  
"Thank you," Bromur says after a short comfortable while of silence.  
"I guess that's not about the clarinet?"  
"Bifur."  
"I know."  
Bifur hadn't wanted to go to Khazad-Dum, and he's right. He's a toymaker and not a fighter. But Bromur will go, and Bifur needs to protect his big brother. Especially since Bromur is married with a kid. Bifur can't let anything happen to him.  
"You know, Sami said that it was too early, and that I'm probably imagining things. But...Bifur, she thinks she is with child."  
"Another one? Brom, control yourself."  
Bromur feels the good-natured mockery.  
"Then," Bifur hesitates, "why are you going? We're going to war, not just out for groceries. You could die, and where would that leave your family?"  
Bifur's eyes are dark and grim. Bromur pulls his brother into a one-armed hug.  
"I go because of them. I want them to have a home. A proper home, not to have to move every few years because the mine's stripped down. A proper house, and friends that they can keep for more than the blink of an eye. Bofur makes friends quickly, but we have moved three times since his birth. It's not good to yank him around from one corner of the land into another. I know I hated that as a kid."  
"Brom."  
"But I had you. It was just father and us. I want to give Bofur more. Sami and him, they deserve so much more."  
Bifur touches his forehead to Bromur's.  
"I'll make sure they will have a home."  
  
After a moment, they hear a cacophony coming from the inn.  
"Bifur!" Sami screams and both dwarves shudder.  
"That's your wife" Bifur says and tries to edge away silently.  
"Your damn clarinet," Bromur counters and drags his brother with him, "Let's face the music together."  
  
  
**Glóin**  
Soft music flows through their home. Glóin lifts his head from the books he had pouring over. He is meticulous with his business. He smiles, then carefully places the quill aside and makes sure that the inkwell is screwed shut.  
He follows the music, although he knows where it will lead him already. He approaches Gimli's room and pushes open the door.  
Irma sits on the bed, brushing and braiding Gimli's flaming red hair. Glóin feels a tug at his heart.  
He had almost forgotten that song. Gently, he sits down behind his wife and runs his fingers through her hair.  
She turns her head slightly so that he can see her smile, then she hands him another brush.  
He brushes and braids her hair as she brushes and braids Gimli's.  
Glóin hums, voice a deep rumbling, while Irma sings.  
She sings of home, of a great kingdom lost in fire. Of the treasures forged there. Of their home.  
Glóin had been but a babe when Óin had carried him out of Erebor. And when Óin had gone off to fight, Glóin had been too young to join him. A hundred years have passed since then.  
He remembers with startling clarity when Óin had rushed to him, telling about the omen.  
"The ravens are returning to the Lonely Mountain," he had told Glóin excitedly, gripping his hands with almost bruising strength.  
"We can go home, brother."  
Óin had come to him before telling Balin or Thorin.  
And now Irma sings of the mountain. She, too, comes from there, she was born in a camp along the journey to the Blue Mountains.  
He has known her almost all his life.  
Glóin presses kiss to the back of her neck.  
" _The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,_  
_While hammers fell like ringing bells_  
_In places deep, where dark things sleep,_  
_In hollow halls beneath the fells_."  
"Will I ever see the mountain?" Gimli asks.  
Glóin grips Irma's hand.  
"We all will, my boy. We will return and take our home back."  
  
  
**Kili**  
The teacher had asked "Isn't he a bit too young?" only once in his whole career. Since then he has learned that it doesn't matter. It's impossible to teach, talk or do anything at all with Fíli without Kíli.  
Everything that Fíli does, Kíli does, too. Of course his fingers can't hold a quill, he can't read as well, he can't reach this or that, but that doesn't stop neither of the princes.  
When Kíli is too short, Fíli lifts him. And when Fíli is too short, he lifts Kíli a bit higher so that Kíli can reach their goal, whether that be cookies hidden on the top shelf or one of their mother's tapestries seemingly secured high in the wall.  
Other kids resent hand-me-downs from older siblings, Kíli posivitely loves wearing Fíli's old clothes. Every new skill that Fíli learns, he shows to Kíli and when the teachers fail to teach Kíli, he does it himself.  
When Fíli learns to braid for the first time, he shows Kíli, and then they both practice on each other.  
Their hair is a tangled mess and it takes 3 hours to properly sort it out.  
When Fíli gets a wooden sword, he begs and begs until Kíli gets an even smaller wooden sword so that they can play together.  
The teacher bites his tongue when Lady Dís announces that Fíli should learn to play an instrument. He's already thinking what instrument suited for Fíli comes with a miniature version for Kíli.  
In the end, he goes to the toymaker he sees everyday on the market, a man with white and black hair and the small matter of an axe in his forehead.  
That doesn't seem to have stopped the toymaker, really, because he keeps on making exquisite toys. He may only speak Khuzdul and communicate in gestures when the other party can't speak the language properly. He is used to that, with a quarter or more of the merchants here speaking other languages. Trade seems to encompass most language barriers.  
He goes to the man's stall with a children's violin and asks if he can make it smaller.  
"Smaller?" the man asks.  
"Yes," the teacher replies, "suited for a child, about 4." He holds his hand at the height Kíli is.  
"Musical prodigy?" the man asks.  
"Let's say stubborn and leave it at that."  
Both smile.  
"Give me 5 weeks," the man says.  
"3," the teacher haggles.  
"4, and the prince will have the best violin a boy his age can dream of."  
Ah, so he recognized him.  
"4," he agrees, and leaves a hefty sum with the toymaker.  
He will doubtlessly got a headache from the shrieking violins, if Fíli's lack of talent and abundance of enthusiasm is something that Kíli will share. And of course, Kíli will.  
But it's preferable to the complains and the sheer looks of disappointment when Kíli is left out of something.  
  
  
**Balin & Dwalin**  
They reach Ered Luin in a stream of dwarves. Fewer than the ones who had left for Azanulbizar.  
But it feels very, very similar.  
Both he and Dwalin go to their home which feels too big. Nothing has ever felt too big for Dwalin.  
But he steps into their house and father is not there.  
Will never return.  
And the house has too many rooms, too much space left empty.  
Balin retires to his room. Dwalin collapses into his.  
They keep out of each other's way for a few days.  
Balin wakes up one day after only a few hours of sleep that had claimed him at sunrise, when he'd been laying awake the whole night.  
Scratchy music. Briefly he wonders if this is still a dream.  
Then he rolls out of bed and walks down the hallway that had never seemed so long to him before.  
The door to father's room is open, and he sees Dwalin's massive back. Dwalin sits on the floor, in his arms father's viola. The one he'd never play again.  
"I-" Dwalin begins, "I knew that it was important to him. How much he and mother loved to play. But I was too selfish, too stubborn. I'd always tell myself that I'd have time later. That I could pick up my dusty viola anyday and play then. And now that is lost, and mother is gone and father is," his breath hitches, "and I'm too late. It's my fault."  
Balin sits down beside his brother. "He loved you, and you loved him, and he knew that. Don't fault yourself, brother, we all thought we'd have more time."  
"He's gone, Balin.  
"Aye, I know. But you're still here, and so am I."  
The bow scratches over the strings.  
"You have to tune it first, give it over." He takes it from Dwalin's trembling fingers.  
He works on the viola, gently.  
Dwalin hands him the bow, and Balin plays a few bars.  
It sounds almost comforting. Father used to play that, and mother before him.  
"Oh, I'm a fool," he suddenly exclaims, and Dwalin looks over to him. "It's a duet, that is why it sounds off."  
Dwalin smiles. "You can't play a duet by yourself, brother."  
"You're welcome to join in, as soon as someone makes a viola for your bear paws."  
"Apparently they made one for your shrinking bones, so I should have no problem finding one for myself."  
  
  
**Bifur**  
Bifur barely remembers the battle. He only saw the axe aimed at his brother's back and how he threw him out of the way.  
Then there is nothing for a while.  
When he comes to, he is in a bed. His fingers feel the linen, the whisper of cloth. His ears hear a baby crying and voices talking. Hushed.  
This is Brom's house.  
"Bromur!" he calls. Is he safe? Did he make it? His brother, he has to be alright.  
The door swings open and Bromur rushes in. He looks like he has aged a decade or more.  
He gathers Bifur to his chest, gently, like he hasn't done since Bifur was very young.  
He tries to reassure Brom, but when he tries to form the words, they're not there.  
He closes his mouth, confused. He knows what he wants to say. Safety.  
But the word, it's on his tongue, but he can't reach it.  
"Bromur," he says softly.  
"I'm here, little brother, I'm here."  
"Gelekhel, Bromur."  
There, words are there, but not where he put them.  
It's Kuzdul, he realizes. His father's tongue.  
It comes easier to him.  
He begins to speak, in a mix of old and new. But Bromur understands.  
"You were wounded," he says. "You saved me."  
"That's what I'm here for." Bifur answers. And Bromur crumples down and buries his head in Bifur's chest.  
"It's not fair."  
"It's fine. Your family."  
Bromur silently hands Bifur a plate. Bifur doesn't know what to do with an empty plate, until Bromur angles it and Bifur sees.  
Yes, that appears to be an axe in his head.  
He's strangely calm. That explains the missing words. And Bromur's state. And why he can't remember the last days. Maybe weeks.  
Strange enough, it doesn't really hurt. It's a dull pressure, but not pain. He should ask a healer about that.  
"You saved me."  
Bifur hugs his brother close.  
Better himself than Bromur. Bromur has a family, Sami and Bofur. And - hadn't Sami said something?  
"Is it okay to come in?" a small voice asks. Tiny fingers grip the edge of the door.  
Bromur wants to say "later, not now," but Bifur is faster.  
"Bofur!" he greets the boy and that is all the permission he needs to rush in and hop on the bed.  
Bofur's eyes grow wide and fearful, fill with tears immediately.  
"It's alright," Bifur wants to say, but he can't. The words are gone. He strains and struggles, they have to be here, someplace.  
It hurts, until he finds his father's words. They're easier. He grew up speaking this tongue, it feels closer. The words are still here.  
But why aren't the others?  
"Gelekhel," he repeats.  
Bofur furrows his brow.  
"Don't you teach this boy anything worthwhile?" he chides his brother playfully.  
"Uncle Bifur says that he's alright, Bofur."  
"Why is he talking like that?"  
Bromur appears lost for words.  
"I lost them in the battle, tell him that."  
Bromur does just that.  
Bofur clings to Bifur's shirt. "I'm glad you came back."  
Bifur smiles.  
It was worth it.  
  
Later, Sami comes in with a small bundle in her arms.  
Bombur had been born while his father had fought.  
When Bromur takes the children to bed, she stays with Bifur.  
"You saved his life. You brought my husband back. I will do everything, everything, in my power to make it up to you."  
She cries, but goes on speaking "I only have one lifetime to repay you, but I will do everything I can."  
Then, Bifur cries. He has been wounded, beyond words. He feels scared, and alone, caught in this tangle of words that should be there and that aren't. He can feel the edge of the hole where they should be, but not the word itself.  
Sami hugs him close.  
"Sleep, I'll watch over you. We all will."  
  
And they do just that.  
They turn the pantry into a workroom for his toys. At least they are still here. The wood is comforting under his hands.  
Bromur is teaching the kids and Sami the old Khuzdul, so they can talk with Bifur. Sami takes him to the inn when she works where he sits in a corner and whittles. She tells the others how he's a war hero, the bravest man she ever met. And the one and only time, a dwarf is disrespectful, she has a butcher's knife to his beard in the blink of an eye.  
"One more word," she threatens. Not one word more comes.  
The children take to him surprisingly fast.  
Bofur takes Bifur by the hand and leads him to where the other children are playing a game when Bifur feels better and can walk without trembling. Two of the girls remember the toymaker from before, from some of his visits before.  
To the others he just says that this is his uncle and he's a toymaker, and soon he is their hero.  
They giggle when he says something, and then Bofur translates. Bofur doesn't always get it right and says nonsense, which makes Bifur laugh, which makes the children laugh, too.  
Life is different but it is good.  
Bofur drags him around in every spare minute, showing him this tree, that rock formation, where Ari says that he saw a red bear, and where Bofur has scraped his knee.  
And he practices playing the clarinet every day, since this was the last thing Bifur has given him before he went away.  
  
  
**Dori**  
His father lifts him up on his shoulders as they wander through Dale. Dori's impressed by all the colors, the people. Most things are too tall, off-dimension, but they're pretty nontheless. Houses made of wood and brick, and so much cloth everywhere. Shrireking human children run past them, tugging a paper dragon behind them. "What do you say, would your mother like these?" His father points to a stall selling cloth. "No," Dori laughs, because his father is so silly, "mother doesn't like green much."  
"Ah, of course."  
His father resumes his journey and Dori wonders at the sights around him, listens to foreign tongues and things he has not the slightest idea of what to use them for.  
They stop at a stall that sells instruments. Skin stretched tightly over drums, polished trumpets and horns. But Dori only has eyes for the flutes. Not at least because the shopkeeper plays a short tune.  
"See anything you like, my master dwarf?"  
"This one!" Dori points. He really shouldn't, it's impolite, but his father only laughs.  
"A fine choice, young master dwarf. Wood from the Greenwood. Basically sings on its own. And for a fair price, too."  
His father haggles and both he and the shopkeeper seem satisfied.  
She hands the flute directly to him. "Be careful with it, there is no instrument quite like it."  
Dori blows into the flute experimentally and is delighted at the tone that comes out.  
"Come now, your mother needs us to pick up new cloth, she wants to make coats for us. Do you think she'd like purple  like this over there?"  
  
**Fili**  
Falka catches his sons who try to look as if they had not been about to convince their uncle to accompany them to the marketplace and buy them sweets. Luckily Thorin's face has more touble concealing his emotions. Thorin may have a blind spot where his kin is concerned, but even he knows that taking two dwarves that young would be irresponsible."But father, it's so boring! Lessons and lessons and even more lessons! We want to go out and explore!" To them, the market place is a far off place of wonder and excitement.  
"Your mother and I have a surprise for you" - the magic word 'surprise' and the market is forgotten.  
"What is it, please tell us!"  
"Go ask your mother and-" He hasn't finished speaking when the princes run off, Kili's hand held safely in Fili's. His own father had once commented that they were like twins, just born 4 years apart. That seems to become more and more true with each passing day.  
He follows his sons to where Dís is waiting.  
On the table in front of her is a slim case. In Fili's imagination, it's probably another toy sword. In Kili's, probably cookies.  
 She lifts the lid and after Fili's gasp of delight, the boy immediately frowns. "Where's Kili's?"  
Falka resist the urge to hide his face in his hands. He should have seen it coming. When Fili had been born, he was quiet and shy. Almost like a shadow of a dwarfling, until Dís had been pregnant with Kili. Then he blossomed and the first word he ever spoke was Kili. He named his brother. And in return, Kili's first word was Fili. His sons have been inseparable since Kili's birth. Of course Fili wants Kili to join, even though Kili's too young. In Fili's and Kili's mind, there's nothing they can't do together.  
He clears his throat. "We had to get Kili's violin made by an expert, it will take just a bit longer until it's finished."  
Dís shoots him a grateful look.  
"How about your mother and I show you how to play and when Kili's violin gets here, you can play together."  
The second magical word 'together'.  
Immediately his sons are at peace and listen with rapt attention as Dís begins to tune the instrument.  
Falka goes off in search of the boys' tutor. After he finds the dwarf in the library, he puts a small bag of gold in his hands. "Kili needs a violin," he explains.  
To his credit, the tutor doesn't question his order and merely fetches his coat.  
"A drum would be easier to construct," the tutor suggests.  
Falka should have thought of that sooner.  
"Do you want to explain to Kili why he gets a different instrument than his brother?"  
"Mahal no."  
  
**Bofur**  
Dori sits on the pony as they ride towards the shire, thinking. There had been no question, not really. When Thorin takes back Erebor, he will be right there with him. His heart beats painfully, when he thinks of Erebor. But it soars when he thinks about returning. He knows it's the same with Balin and Dawlin. Balin may be the only one who wants to see Thorin on his throne more than Thorin himself. Óin and Glóin, too, remember their home. But the others - he knows that Bifur and his ...cousins? brothers? nephews?  - he is rusty in the langauge department, and Bofur's translations seem vague and wrong on purpose, if the way Bifur rolls his eyes and shoves at Bofur is any indication... didn't come from Erebor. They're from Khazad-Dum. It's not their home, and yet they came. Dori looks at the young princes, and at his own brothers.  
They hadn't even been born when Erebor fell. Nori came when the others fought at Azanulbizar, and Ori didn't come for years after that. He's the same age as the princes. How many of their company are fighting for a home they never saw, he wonders.  
It's almost evening, sun about to set.  
He's shaken out of his thoughts, when the others laugh and cackle. One of Bofur's dirty jokes, doubtlessly.  
"We should make camp here," Balin says and halts.  
"But-" the princes say.  
"We will need another day to reach Gandalf and we will be faster when we see where we are actually going," Balin says with the voice only an older brother can reach.  
They set up camp, eating and talking.  
Bofur takes out his clarinet and throws it up in the air for show.  
"Can you guess which one this is?"  
He is barely a few notes in, when Gloin says "Silver Silver in the Chest".  
"This was an easy one. Let's guess this one."  
"The bear and the honey pot!"  
"Orc Skulls a'rolling!"  
"The maid from the mountains!'" Ori bursts out.  
Dori shoots him a dirty look. "I suppose I don't have to ask where you would know such a song from."  
Ori turns red and avoids Dori's gaze,  
"Ori's 80, Dori, not 8. Let the lad have a bit of fun," Nori says, smirking behind his pipe.  
"You are without a doubt the worst influence on any young man I can imagine."  
"Hold on now," Bofur says, "I feel insulted. I am a bad influence on Nori himself, so clearly I'm worse."  
"No, you're not," Nori says.  
Bofur opens his mouth in mock-shock.  
"Fine, we'll see about that."  
He begins to start a song. All the dwarves look puzzled, obviously they don't recognize the tune.  
Nori however, turns beet-red and falls off his bedroll, laughing.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I had originally plannet to write a segment for each dwarf. But I'm not finished, not by far, so there will be more chapters later on.


End file.
